


Livery

by Katharos



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katharos/pseuds/Katharos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus gets comfortable with claiming people. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Livery

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tf_speedwriting and edited a little for reposting here. Prompt: Livery

Elita was the first. She told him the idea quietly as they lay together afterwards, shaking together, exploring each others unfamiliar forms with familiar touches. An old myth, a sparkling tale, something to thrill to in long nights. He pushed himself away, staring down at her, the instinct to protest, to object, queuing in his vocaliser. He stopped at the sight of her. Sleek, powerful, like nothing he'd ever quite seen before, like something off a newsvid. Out of a legend. Looking up at him steadily and Optimus shuttered his optics, exhaling a shaky sigh. Felt the weight and power of his own frame, the weight of the promise he'd committed himself to when he'd grappled with Megatron. Elita's hand caressed the joints of his new mask. She'd always been braver than he was, but he would learn.

They stole supplies from Alpha Trion's store room and painted each other, kneeling across from each other, each stroke a caress, a promise, a farewell.

 

Ironhide demanded it. Optimus hesitated, caught off balance. It was one thing for him and Elita to claim the symbol for themselves. But it meant something different to give it to another mech and he was once again worrying about his own presumption. At what this step would make of the rag tag band that was forming around him, at how the remnants of the Cybetronian Government would see it. At laying claim to another to mech, to this mech, old and celebrated soldier, teacher, new and already dear friend. He wasn't, Optimus thought, panicked, a councillor or a noble mech, to presume a retinue of mechs was his by right -

Hey, Ironhide drawled, I'm asking you for it.

The next day he saw Chromia, too, walking with their mark upon her frame, saw her strut and smirk under Elita's eyes, her cannons gleaming under the stuttering lights.

 

With Jazz it was laughter. Teasing, mocking, lots of wriggling amid loud protestations of ticklishness until Optimus was startled into laughing himself and Jazz grinned up at him, smaller hand wrapped firmly about his wrist to hold him in place. Anyone ever tell you you've got really pretty optics when you laugh, boss?

Optimus smiled and daubed a smudge of paint on Jazz's nose, and laughed again when the saboteur squawked. By the end they were both covered in paint but the mark was pristine on Jazz's chest and Optimus's spark was lighter.

 

By Ratchet it was expected. After the battle was finished he went searching for the medic who'd saved his life and found him in the overcrowded med-bay, swaying on his feet, optics almost white with energy drain.

Optimus dragged him upright, ignoring his bleary protests, and all but carried him out the door followed by a mix of anxious and resentful gazes. There were no assigned quarters yet so Optimus took him to the rooms that had been given to him. Ratchet had woken up enough by then to start complaining, but when his legs went out from under him he gave in with a grumble. Optimus got him onto the berth where the medic immediately collapsed into recharge and Optimus realised, bemusedly, that he couldn't get free. Ratchet showed no great surprise at finding his Prime pinned within his arms when he onlined a few hours later.

The shared an energon ration, talking about the needed supplies for the med bay and reminiscing about the old party scene at Iacon (they shared some bars but Ratchet had been thrown out of more clubs than Orion had known existed.) Optimus painted the mark onto him with neat strokes and then they separated to go and begin their shifts.

 

He researched for Prowl. The city-myths of Praxus, old protocol guides, questioning Smokescreen who had received his own mark from the commander of an Autobot cell far away.

It was all worth it when Prowl stepped into his quarters and he saw his new tactical officer's optics widen, saw the stress and exhaustion and pain in that frame and tightly held door-wings soften in surprise and gratitude.

Optimus came to him with outstretched hands and led him gently to the centre of the room where newly rare incense burned and gleaming tools were set out. They knelt together and Optimus spoke the correct words and received Prowl's reply in return with all the solemnity and kindness due to this mech's dignity and grace. And after he had finished cleaning every inch of Prowl's frame, and after he had gently brushed their symbol onto newly gleaming plating, his mech sighed softly and rested his head against Optimus's caressing hand.

 

For the twins he knelt on the floor of a gutted warehouse, screaming winds from the imploding reactor whipping through the rents in the walls, blue optics watching him suspiciously as he moved careful hands across warm golden plating. The red twin circled them, leaving prints of energon across the floor, a trail of laughter and sharp barbs that twisted with the wind, his attention a burning track across Optimus' shoulder plates.

His officers would scold him, later, for the risk he's taken, going back for these two unknowns. Violent vagabonds of no known loyalty. But he would count far worse than that a light price to pay. For he loved them already, these wild twins, and with each brush stroke he offered himself back to them.


End file.
